


At The Door

by everybreatheverymove



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Sex, F/M, Murder, Mystery, Supernatural Elements, Survival Horror, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8327146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: AU: Spending some much-needed alone time in her family’s country home over winter break, Sansa is disturbed when she begins hearing sudden loud bangs and strange whispers coming from behind closed doors. To make matters worse, she is unable to get through to any family member, and must rely upon her older brother’s best friend Jon to help her out, despite their strained past and clashing personalities.





	1. Hear

Despite not having been to the family's countryside mansion in the last couple of years, Sansa Stark has somehow managed to make herself right at home.

Once the taxi driver had dropped her off, and even quite happily taken her things into the main hallway for an extra tip, she'd settled in.

Her heavy bags still remained unpacked in the grand entrance, blocking the door to the cellars. She wouldn't be needing to go down there just yet, only if she ran out of wine or blew a fuse or something that seemed unlikely to happen.

She'd bought a dozen bottles of her favourite cheap wine before setting off on her trip, and they were safely spread out in her bags. Though her father's taste in liquor was quite rich, and if a feeling of solitude overtook her than she may need something stronger, older.

She would only be here for a couple of weeks, just enough time to clear her head, set some clear-cut, fresh goals to strive for, and forget cheating ex-fiancés. Joffrey wasn't worth her time. No.

Instead of spending her holidays with his entitled family and having to feign laughs at his uncle's drunken quips, as she had done for the past several years, she would be taking long baths and reading chapter upon chapter of those novels she collected over that time.

The idea of spending Christmas with her own family had not appealed much to her, either. They always spent the holidays in the mansion, but for the last few years, it became too far for her elderly grandparents to travel out to, so her parents had decided to pass the festivities down at theirs instead. It was a good three hour drive from here to home, but Sansa needed the space and quiet.

She was finally where she wanted to be in life, with a healthy career as a researcher, with a nice fiancé who spoilt her, with an apartment of her own.

But, while her job was great and she had everything she thought she had ever wanted, reality hit her hard when she'd thought it a good idea to surprise Joffrey on his birthday two weeks ago.

She'd gone around to his house with the spare key he'd afforded her, gotten dressed up and planned out a fancy surprise dinner. She'd even taken cookery classes for it, fool that she was.

Only when the key had turned in the lock and she'd almost shouted out a seductive Happy Birthday!, her fiancé had stumbled through the front door with a blonde hanging from his arm and his pants undone, unzipped with the blonde's hand shoved through the opening.

Instead of apologising, he had only tried to brush off the situation, feign nonchalance and pretend she was a friend who got too hammered over drinks earlier at work. But Sansa wasn't a fool, and there was lipstick on his collar, and she was done.

Before leaving, she'd picked up one of the candles lit on the dining table and dropped it on the floor, watching as the corner of his expensive rug went up in flames. She'd stalked out with pride, head held high, but arriving home was a different matter.

She'd been speeding, tipsy on cheap booze from a nearby liquor store, almost crashed into a car with a baby-on-board sticker adorning its rear window. Her license had been revoked, she'd spent the night in a grungy cell, and her brother Robb had been less than amused when she called him to pick her up the next day.

So, here she was. On a break from work, twenty-three and single, with no license and a mansion all to herself, with all the booze she could manage.

"Alright." She licks her lips, pulling on the hair tie from her wrist and tying her long red hair into a loose ponytail.

The house was dark, only lit by the cracks of sunlight reflecting from the sea outside through the curtained windows. It wasn't far off the coast, so she could get a clear view of the beautiful seaside from one side of the villa. The other side of the house was mostly just the grounds, all forest and all green.

She spends a good amount of time wafting the old curtains in the air, brushing off the accumulated dust and watched it float through the foggy air. She'd opened virtually every window in the house to try and air it out, try and rid the house of that musty, rotting smell.

Her old room, the one she used to share with her sister Arya on the third floor, was locked, as were all the other kids' bedrooms. She figured her parents had locked up most of the house the last time they had been here.

Unwilling to go find the keys, she told herself she would do it another day, when she was cosy and high on energy, and instead struggled to drag her luggage bags full of clothes up to her parents' room on the second floor. The other bags, the booze and food and book filled ones, could wait.

Once she's finished hanging her clothes up in her mother's wardrobe, shoving the older woman's dresses to the side, she pulled open the first drawer on the chest beside the wardrobe.

Picking up a pile of underwear from her bag, she drops them in the wooden drawer, her fingertips tracing the edge of a piece of paper lay flat against the dark oak. Sand coloured and tearing at the corner, she picks it up and admires the envelop. Was her mother supposed to send this to someone years ago?

There was no address, no sender, even. But it was sealed shut by someone's lick, and Sansa frowns at the realisation that it mustn't be her mother's, seen as she always refused to lick her envelops and instead sealed them with sellotape.

Setting the letter on top of the dresser, determined to read it when she gets a chance, she finishes unpacking her stuff, shoving a couple dozen thick pairs of wooly socks into the bottom drawer.

She pulls on a cardigan, grey and falling apart at the seams. It needs throwing out, but it's her favourite and she can't bare to part with it. Then she goes back downstairs, tossing the empty luggage bags near the main door.

Feeling an ache begin to tug at her stomach, she goes to lift the bags of food into the kitchen, freshly cleaned with bleach and smelling like flowers. But it's heavier than she expected, so she drags it across to the room instead, through the hallway and the large living space.

She can't help but huff at the pull on her arms, and she has to keep blowing on her falling hair to keep it from blocking her eyes. Her back stiffens when she feels a cold shiver shoot up her spine then, as though a running of ice cold fingertips up her back. Her breath catches and she drops the handles of her bag, letting it drop on her feet. "Ow! Damn it!"

Glancing around, she brushes off the feeling as a sign that she should probably close the windows now that the air was cooler. It was still winter, and she wasn't in the mood to be catching a cold.

Hurriedly dragging the bag into the kitchen, she stops by the fridge and unzips it, emptying its contents into the fridge and cupboards. She probably hasn't brought enough for a couple weeks, but she will just call a taxi to take her to the shop if she has to. Vegetables and crisps and water and booze will have to suffice for now.

She plops the empty bag down with the others after that, and goes off to shut almost all the opened windows, safe for the one in her bedroom and the one in the study. She swaps out the bedding on her parents' king size for a fresh black and white floral set, scrunching up the old sheets and duvet and pillow cases and throwing them aside into the corner of the room to be washed another time.

After a few hours, when darkness falls, she is settled in the comfy chair by the fireplace with a book in her lap. This kind of peace is one of her favourite feelings in the world. The blanket covering her legs somehow still faintly smells of her nana and she basks in the musky scent, reminding her of her childhood. The novel she'd been reading is dropped onto the floor when she begins to fall asleep, head pressed against her shoulder, feet slipping off the edge of the seat.

She wakes herself up when she hears a clank and, glancing down at the floor, she checks to make sure her now cold cup of tea hasn't tipped over.

"Oh." It hasn't spilt, and she looks around the floor to see if anything else has dropped from her body. There is nothing besides the book and mug on the floor. Standing up, she stretches her arms out, brushing the noise off as the wind outside batting tree branches against the window. She'll remember to close hem tomorrow. Placing her book and cup on the table, she drags the blanket against the cold floor as she makes her way up the stairs to bed. Cleaning and settling in has knackered her out.

Once she's in her room, she sends a quick reply to a text from Arya, seeing how she's getting along in her 'recuperation', as she calls out. She smiles, signs the text with a the kiss-blowing emoji, and places her phone down on the bedside table.

Shrugging off her cardigan, she tosses it down at the end of the bed and slips beneath the fresh covers. It's snuggly, wonderfully warm and she quickly drifts off to sleep, too tired to wash up or brush her teeth.

Sansa awakens around six o'clock that morning, oddly strange considering how tired she had been the night before. But it isn't an active brain that wakes her, rather her sense. Through the thickness of her duvet and blanket, she swears she can hear the handle to her bedroom being turned, the rusty metal clicking as it opens.

Her eyes flicker open just then, and she quickly sits up in bed, covers pulled up to her chin.

The door is still, closed, and the handle isn't moving.

Blood rushes to her face at the realisation of what she imagined. Nobody was breaking in. She was fine.

But the illusion has her on edge, and she can't fall back to sleep after that. Her eyes refuse to stay shut and her brain won't shut up.

So she gets up and starts her day around eight, after she'd showered and eaten her oatmeal breakfast. She takes a flask of coffee with her outside. She's gonna fix up the garden today. That'll calm her soul.

She plants some flowers with seeds found in her grandpa's old shed. She cuts weeds that have been growing for years on end. She trims down the roses bushes but keeps them large and flourishing.

She doesn't stop for dinner until it's around nine o'clock at night. She makes herself a vegetarian platter, a mixture of chopped up veggies. It's healthy. Healthy is good for a cleansed soul. She needs it.

Unhealthily, she eats her food in front of the television, a bottle and a half of red wine empty by the time she feels about ready to pass out.

Her life is a mess, try as she might to deny it. She'll accept this fact, one day.

When she makes her way out of the living room, shutting off the shitty reality series marathon still playing on the tv, she glances at the clock on the wall. Four. Great. What a schedule she is living by.

Sansa heads into the hall, stopping beside her unpacked bags. She digs through them to find her migraine pills. The wine is having a lousy side effect on her fatigue. She feels restless but not tired.

It's dark outside, but through the hallway light reflecting on the window, she can scarily spot the shape of a man down at the bottom of her garden, his hands swinging about. Daringly, she passes through the door, stepping into the breezy night. Forgetting her shoes, she takes a couple steps forward until she can get a clear view of the man. Probably not a wise decision.

Running barefoot down past the rose bushes, distant sounds of whispering could be heard at the bottom of the garden. She couldn't make out any people, however, only noises and the crunching of leaves beneath feet. She runs back into the house, letting the outside door flap behind her and swing into the night. Damn the wine.

Back in the entrance hallway, she shivers beneath her cardigan, shames herself for only wearing a thin nightie beneath it. Her nipples ache from the chilly air and she shivers away the goosebumps creeping up her skin as she flicks off the light switch.

On her way to the staircase, she stops outside the kitchen. Her heart seems to come to a halt at the sound, blood refusing to pump through her veins.

Making out a small murmur, either a melodious harmony of echoey voices or simply one through the glass panels, she backs away from the sliding doors leading into the kitchen. What the fuck?

It was already strange that she could hear people lingering nearby outside, but that could be easily explained by the distant neighbours on a long walk around their premises. This however? This was wrong. And it wasn't the wine.

There was someone, or rather multiple people, in her kitchen. She could only faintly make out the shapes of bodies walking around the counter. But everything was dark, and the voices weren't speaking. They were humming, muttering, alternating between the two.

Sansa can't quite make out what the voices say, but the thought alone of somebody being within such close proximity to her, to the house even, when she was supposed to be here alone, was frightening, terrifying.

Hurrying up the stairs, she runs down the long corridor, chest heaving, panting, until she reaches her bedroom. Sliding across the floor in her socks, she almost whacks her head against the doorframe, but her hands reach out to steady herself and she pulls herself upright.

Slamming the door shut behind her, she turns the key in the lock twice over, double locking it to make sure it stays closed. Slides the latch over the wooden door, too, thankful that her parents' were so desperate for privacy once upon a time that they thought of these measures.

Running across the room, she forces herself into the corner where the old bed sheets lie, sitting with her shoulder-blades pressed up against the adjoining walls. She feels stiff, almost unable to move. What the hell was all that racket? And why the hell was it so loud?

She likes to think herself a strong woman, brave, capable of defending herself. But there is only a certain extent she is willing to reach before danger becomes evident.

And strange murmurs and the odd clanging of metals tools in the kitchen is setting off her deepest nightmares. What if somebody has broken in and wishes to harm her? Worse, what if it was multiple somebodies?

Or perhaps they didn't even know she was here and instead only set out on robbing the place? It was a mansion, her family had money, it would obviously be a robber's paradise.

But what if during their raid they stumbled across the pretty, alone, drunk, scared redhead in the corner? There wasn't even anything in here she could use as a weapon, she thinks. A candlestick, maybe. Or the heel of a shoe? But no knives or guns or, hell, even, pepper spray to throw them off for a second or two.

Glad she had thought to grab her phone from the kitchen earlier, she makes quick work of dialing her father's number. Ned Stark may be a retired but he was almost quick on the ball back when he was working.

She had twenty percent battery left and no charger, so she slides down her brightness and keeps her volume to mute, as though that'll change much, before pulling the phone up to her ear.

Thank fuck there's service.

But service proves futile, and her dad doesn't pick up the damn phone. So she tries her mum instead. No answer. They're probably out, at one of those lush holiday parties they enjoy attending so much, where they spend all night getting drunk and talking shit with old friends. Goddamn them. She tries twice more.

Robb will surely pick up. He's always there for his siblings. It's that protective big brother complex he has, Sansa reasons.

She scrolls through her contacts to find him, hitting the call button before she can even make sure it's his new number. But it is, and the phone must ring for a good minute or so before she realises he isn't going to pick up. It's late on Christmas Eve, for fuck's sake. He's probably in bed early with Talisa and little Ned.

Early? It's half four in the morning, she reminds herself with a shaky breath. Who in their right mind would she know who would still be awake?

Oh, yes, her social media, news, world politics addicted sister. Arya was a freelance journalist, meaning she always needed to be ready for action.

"You're always on your bloody phone, Arya. Come on. Pick up."

She hears herself mumbling, voice low, biting her thumbnail as she waits for her sister's voice to sound on the other end, keeping her eyes peeled on the door, watching it. It doesn't even ring.

Attempting a last resort, she calls Bran, her younger brother but not the youngest. Rickon was the youngest, but he was off in Europe on some course so it would be utterly ridiculous to call him for help. Besides, he was fifteen, what could he possibly do? But, while Bran was wheelchair bound and unable to drive, he could maybe get his girlfriend Meera to do it, or at the very least he could get through to Robb… or someone.

Bran doesn't answer, and she is left alone in a room lit only by a nightstand lamp because she refuses to get up and go towards the main light switch.

She has twelve percent left, and almost nobody to call. Her friends were probably all pissed, and wouldn't even acknowledge what she was telling them? "Sansa, you're drunk, shut up,", they'd say, "You should be here." Margaery would surely brush it off as the wind.

Practically everyone she knows lives at least a couple hours or so away anyhow, so by the time they got here she could already be lying in a pool of her own blood.

Tugging on the sleeves of her cardigan and wrapping her arms tighter around her stomach, she pulls her knees up to rest beneath her chin before making one final call.

No matter how much she once despised him, Jon Snow remains her last option.

Robb's best friend of ten years, Jon only lives twenty five minutes away. He'd moved further up North when he'd come home from the military three years ago. He'd been roommates with Loras back then, Margaery's brother.

And, thanks to their unknowing relative friends, they had somehow been paired up on the worst blind date of Sansa's entire life. Brooding, mysteriously dark and handsome men were not her type, but somehow Margeary had ignored this detail when she'd set them up.

Unaware that Sansa had known him since she was a teenager, the young woman had been amused to find out they already knew each other and apparently didn't hit it off romantically. She'd laughed over how the pair had spent the time getting drunk, making small talk about Robb, and then going home separately.

There had been little to no attraction there, only mountains of awkwardness and an agreement to never speak of said 'date' ever again.

He wasn't her type, but he was in her contacts because Robb told her to have him there for safe keeping. Maybe he had been right in doing so. Jon was a soldier, after all.

And she'd heard from Arya that he'd been dealing with PTSD for some time now so there was a good chance that he was still awake. Insomnia was a side effect, wasn't it? Or no? She thinks herself quite selfish for even using his mental illness as her escape goat, but if he's awake and within relatively close distance to her, what would be the harm?

She glances out the bedroom window as she calls his number, on her knees and shoving the edge of the curtains to the side to see if there was anything going on outside. She could get a clear view of the front of the mansion, but there was nobody and nothing there, not even the stray cat that used to bring dead mice to their front door.

"Hello?"

"Oh, thank fuck!" Sansa exhales a breath she didn't realise she has been holding, her chest suddenly lightened. "Jon?"

"Sansa?" His voice is calm, but not at all sleepy or sleep-deprived. He takes a moment before speaking again, and she hears the noise of his laptop shutting off in the background. "What's up?"

"I'm… Are you- Are you at home?"

"Uh, yeah." He sounds confused, if not baffled. "Why?"

Sansa flicks her gaze back over to the door. "Do you remember my grandpa Rick's old place? The one by the sea?" She whispers, biting her tongue as she finishes, waiting for his reply. He only mumbles a 'Yes', and she proceeds, "Can you come here?"

"Sansa, what are you doing?" He sounds somewhat annoyed now, though he remains calm but she can picture his brows knitting on that solemn face of his. Jon breathes out a sigh, "Look, I know you're lonely and all… Robb told me. But-"

"Jon. No." She grits her teeth, "I'm not lonely. I am alone. Alone and freaked the fuck out because I am in this huge house, in the middle of the night, and there are people downstairs. And outside." The redhead takes a deep breath, keeps her eyes focused on the door, refuses to blink. "At least I hope they're still downstairs."

"Wait, what? Sansa, that isn't funny. Have you been drinking?"

"I'm not joking, Jon." She pulls the phone away from her ear and taps on the FaceTime button, waiting for him to answer. Eight percent. Wonderful.

His face pops up on the screen before she can figure out how to store her battery, and she takes in the confusion on his face as he runs a hand through his dark hair.

"Jon." She whispers through her teeth, ice blue eyes wide and lips dry, "You are my last option. How far away do you live?"

"I don't know, like half an hour or something?" His eyes seem to darken, and notices him taking in her surroundings. "You aren't kidding, are you?"

"No." Her voice falters, and for some reason she feels tears welling up in her eyes. What if it was all fake, a trick the wine had played on her? She doesn't want to fall into paranoia, but nor does she plan on dying tonight. "Can you-"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming."

Sansa nods, a couple times with her eyes downcast, before she glances back up at the screen. Five percent. She can only see the ceiling of his apartment on the screen, but she can hear him rummaging around his room, obviously getting dressed. "Jon?" She gulps.

"Yeah?" He voices rapidly, and then she sees him again, all messy-haired and clothed in a leather jacket.

"My battery's gonna die." She swallows, shifts her eyes to the door again, "I have to hang up now."

He nods, picks his phone up and she can hear his keys rattling in his hand. "Stay there, okay? Don't move."

"Okay."

"Right. Stay alive, Stark. You're gonna be the one paying for my speeding tickets." He jokes, walking through his door and slamming it shut behind him.

Sansa can only force the smallest of smiles in reply, her nose sniffling from tears she refused to spill. "Thank you."

He hangs up after that, and she clutches the phone tight in her hand then, against her chest, the dying battery her only life boat.

Time moves slower than she would have liked from then on. She counts the seconds as they pass by, hearing them tick away on wall clock above the dresser. Seconds turn to minutes, and minutes pass to moments. And her phone eventually dies, when it's been twenty two minutes of pause, of silence, of her checking the battery life. It's ironic, almost.

She can see the early morning sunshine begin to rise outside. A fresh five o'clock start to the day, she would usually say. But she has not slept, and she is not calm, and she only wants to curl up and cry at this point.

The optimistic her would assume that since the sun was up, whoever was downstairs had come and gone. No intruder would want to be seen in broad daylight at the scene of the crime.

The only problem with this notion is that there are no houses around for miles, only woods and small wildlife. Nobody would see an intruder. Nobody would know.

Her ears suddenly perk up when she hears gravel shifting beneath the window at her side. A car. She gets on her knees again, dragging the edge of the curtain to the side to check.

Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, she leans back against the bedroom wall, finally dropping her phone, feeling her hand burn from clutching it tight for so long.

It takes a good while before Jon even enters the house.

It's about thirty minutes after he arrives that she hears him, banging loudly against the front door downstairs, forcing it open. He shouts her name once, twice after a moment, "You can come out!"

Slowly, she makes her way across the room, tentatively sliding the bar of the door open and turning the key twice to unlock it. She grabs the doorknob and pulls it open swiftly, deciding to force herself into action until she is beside him.

Walking fast down the corridor, she keeps a hand against the wall, shifting it to the railing when she reaches the top of the stairs, but her eyes keep shooting glances behind her.

"I had a quick run around the house." Jon tells her, at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his coat pockets. His hair is pulled back into one of those buns he pulls off so well, and she feels herself nodding along with his words. "Nothing." He lifts a brow when she rushes over and throws her arms around him, in a hug that doesn't feel familiar.

"I swear, there was-" Sansa pauses, moving away awkwardly, brushing her hair behind her ears and pulling on her cardigan to cover her bare legs. "There was talking, and… and moaning. And they kept banging stuff. It was cutlery or something, I don't know." She feels shivers run down her arms and up her legs. She places one leg in front of the other when she reaches the floor, looking over at Jon. "I'm not crazy."

"I didn't say you were." He shrugs, licks his lips. "But you know, maybe you're just a little tired. Robb said you haven't been yourself-"

"I don't care what the fuck Robb said, I'm not crazy." Her eyes widen to get her point across and he takes a step back. "Yes, I almost set my fiancé's apartment on fire. Yes, I was briefly arrested because I like cheap shit wine and shouldn't take the wheel when I'm pissed. I'm not crazy. I'm not unhinged. I'm not drunk, not anymore. There was somebody here and I know it."

"Okay. Alright." He holds his hands up before moving to slip his jacket from his shoulders. He folds it over the old banister, rolls up his sleeves. "You wanna leave? I can help you pack."

"No. I-" She hadn't considered leaving. She hadn't considered much of anything, if she was being entirely honest. "I want this shit to stop happening."

"What do you mean 'stop'? Has it happened before?"

Sansa peers over at him through long lashes, "The other night, I- I couldn't sleep. Well, I woke up because I thought someone was at my bedroom door. It was stupid, really. I brushed it off, thought I dreamt it."

"Sansa."

"Obviously, I didn't." She mutters, "That means they came back. If they were here before, and didn't get- They knew I was here. They know I'm here."

"Sansa. You need to leave."

"And let some weirdo steal from my family? No."

Jon sighs, closes his eyes. "If they even want to steal stuff. You don't know what they want." He tries to reason.

The possibilities are endless, she gathers. And he doesn't want to bring them up, the obvious ones, but she knows that they are.

"You mean me? You mean what if they don't want to steal from me, they want to rape me instead?" She holds his gaze when his eyes flick upon, and she takes a step toward him. "I would like to see them try."

"You can't stay here alone."

"You can't leave me here alone, you mean." She corrects him with a determined stare, "I would like to see someone try and harm me when you're around."

Jon rolls his eyes, moving away from her, "I'm not your knight in shining armour, Sansa. We agreed on that."

He heads into the kitchen, sliding open the doors. The room was clean, tidy, no cutlery or tools in sight. He shoots her knowing glance.

"I'm not crazy." She repeats, and he is becoming and more convinced that she actually is crazy. "You might not be my knight but you're the closest thing I've got to family right now because nobody else seems to be answering their phones. You're my last resort, Jon. Not my prince."

"But you expect me to keep you safe?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, you know what? You should leave. That's the safest option." He informs her, pulling open the fridge door. "Jesus, do you eat anything other than carrots?" He pulls out a bottle of water.

"No." Sansa sarcastically retorts, forcing the fridge door shut, almost trapping his fingers in it. Jon gives her a strange look when she gets in front of him. "I eat carrots, sometimes meat. Hell, I may even carve up an intruder or two when we catch them."

"We? Oh, no. I'm not staying here. First of all," He holds up a finger, takes a swig of water, "I didn't bring any shit with me. Second, and most importantly, I'm not helping them build up a murder tally."

She presses her palms against the wooden countertop, breathing in deeply. "Jon… I need you." She tries, "Help me."

"Help you trap some potential murders? It's not a game, Sansa. This isn't Mouse Trap. There's no cage that's gonna slide down and catch the bad guys. If there were people here who wanted to harm you, you don't hang around and wait for them to come back. You get the fuck out and stay far away."

"You keep saying 'if'. As if you don't believe me."

"Well, you do have a flair for the dramatic. You always have."

They have done this for years. Managed to get along for a short while before it all turns to shit and the petty arguments begin. It always happened, no matter how many times Robb or Arya intervened.

"Did you just drive all the way out here to mock me? Because you sounded pretty concerned on the phone."

"Yeah, well, you looked pretty scared."

"I am scared, you idiot! I'm fucking terrified, and I called you because, despite the fact that I hate about 90% of your guts, I thought you were decent person who would help me."

"I am decent, Sansa. I was concerned. Did you think I came here for my benefit? I came for you," he tells her, sliding his bottle across the counter, "I came because you asked, and you looked terrified and I didn't want to find out that you had died here all alone."

She doesn't reply, only stares him down, an icy intensity to her gaze.

"I didn't realise however that you had a fucking death wish. But, hey, you know what, if you'd rather stay here and risk your life, then feel free. I'll tell Robb I tried."

"Fine."

"What?"

"Fine. I'll leave with you. I'll leave." Her shoulders drop and she shifts from one bare leg to the other, ignoring the way his eyes drop to her legs. "Help me pack."

"Thank you."

"Yeah." She bites her tongue, opens the fridge again and begins to pile out some of the food. "Can I nap though? For a little while?" She asks, suddenly quiet.

"Yeah." He nods. It's like six in the morning. Surely they can find time to nap and eat. "I'll make us something to eat after." He dares to reason, and she can only nod in reply before spinning on her heel and leaving the kitchen.

He almost collapses against the counter after that, his hands turning to fists around the edge of the sink in the island. "Fuck."

He runs a hand over his face, deciding to follow her lead and take a much-needed nap. A couple of hours will surely do just fine. They'll still have plenty of time to pack up the house and leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I'm sticking to the whole supernatural aspect of the story I originally planned, but we'll see what happens as it develops. It's a three-shot, so hopefully I'll have it finished and uploaded fast enough. (Let me know if I fucked up anywhere. I wanted it posted as soon as, so I haven't re-read it.)


	2. See

Glancing at the alarm clock she'd set up on the bedside table, Sansa feels her head begin to throb at the realisation that it's already past noon and they won't have long to pack before the sky begins to darken.

The sun disappears behind the dusty clouds earlier in winter, usually around five or six o'clock in the afternoon. This means she has little more than four hours to get up and get washed and eat and pack up her family's most precious belongings.

They never really leave any items of importance unattended, unguarded in the house, so there surely wouldn't be a lot to root through. Her mother always double bubble-wrapped anything expensive, luxurious, and brought it home with her. She was clever like that.

The mansion is mostly filled with antiques, ones her parents had passed down onto them, but they couldn't be worth more than a couple hundred pounds.

Forcing the thick duvet covers from her body, the redhead feels her skin erupt in goosebumps. She folds her arms tight over her chest, grimacing at the sensation of ice-cold floorboards beneath her bare feet.

Trudging down the dimly-lit hallway into the bathroom, she pulls the door ajar behind her and flicks on the light switch. Her eyes are puffy, stinging, still recovering from a lack of sleep. Her lips are dry and she feels a yawn creeping up the back of her throat as she reaches for her toothbrush.

Applying a thick layer of paste onto the bristles, she shoves the brush past her teeth and bites the plastic stick as she begins to pick up any and all beauty products she can find to force them into her wash bag.

Picking up a thinning bar of soap, she tosses it onto the shower floor and pulls the door wide open as a reminder that she should probably scrub up. Once all of the other bottles and lotions and hair-ties are in the bag, she finally gets to brushing her teeth, wrist weak and grip loose.

She rinses her mouth out with water from the tap, skipping the mouthwash she has already packed away and instead gargling with the hot water that catches her off guard.

The cold tap oddly emits scolding hot water so she limits herself to only a couple drops in the palm of her hand to pat over her face, in the hope of waking herself up a little bit more.

After zipping her bag up and dropping it into the sink, she heads back down the hall to her bedroom, pulling open the bottom drawer containing her socks. She pulls on a pair of knee-high socks, cream and wool. Slamming the drawer to a close, she slides her hand over the empty top, admiring the old wood beneath her hand. It's cool, freezing almost. Everything is cold.

Stepping away, Sansa thinks to locate her brown leather boots, the ones with only a small chunky heel and a couple of laces up the front. They'd be handy for running around and packing. She'd left them by the front door the other day, she reminds herself as she goes down the stairs, carefully gripping the banister as to not slip from the softness of her socked heels.

Her palm coats over the edge of the banister as she stops, eyeing her boots across the way. It's then that she wonders where Jon's jacket has disappeared to. He'd placed it over the banister when he arrived, settled himself in.

Has he left? Gone, decided to leave her alone to deal with her intruders? No. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't risk Robb ever finding out that he had left his sister to be violated or brutalised or murdered.

She slides across the varnished floor easily, steadying her hands against the wall as she slips into her boots. It's a custom attire; long cardigan and skimpy nightgown and knee-high socks with boots. But her outfit is the least of her worries. She tells herself that she'll get dressed later, when she's fed and washed and ready to leave this hellhole.

Slipping past the kitchen doors, she takes a seat on one of the stools at the island and pulls over the chopping board, determined to make herself some food. Jon had said he would make them something to eat, but she has no idea where he is and no desire to go venturing out to find him. Hell, he could have left her. She wouldn't blame him, not really.

She slips some of the carrots he had teased her with earlier from the bag, washes them beneath the hot tap, and wraps her fist around the largest knife she can find. She chops off the ends briskly, begins to cut them up into an array of thin and thick slices.

It isn't a meal, per se, but it's food and she's starving. She reaches over and grabs a couple of lemons from the fruit bowl on the side. She quickly places them beneath the blade and cuts herself a handful of slices of the fruit. Dropping the juiced knife onto the wooden board, she hops off her stool and walks around the island to grab an expensive bottle of vodka she'd purchased on her way over. Wine wasn't everything.

Sansa grabs three glasses from the cabinet above the stove, and slides them beside the chopping board. Staring down at her platter, she sighs, licks her lips as she picks up a piece of carrot.

She bites into the vegetable, frowns at its taste. Bland, boring. Fuck.

As she finishes it, she picks at a piece of the lemon, admiring the quarter with great disdain. It seemed like a good idea, to wake her up and fuck with her tastebuds so she may finally spew up the vomit she has felt lingering in throat for hours now.

As she raises the yellow fruit to her mouth, her lips brushing against the skin and her teeth barely sinking into the fleshy core, she stiffens when she feels a presence behind her. The hair on her arms all stand up, and she practically jumps at the voice.

"Looks good."

"Jesus." Her chest pants heavily, eyes shut tight as Jon walks around to her side.

He seems to clear his throat, "Made yourself a little snack, huh?"

"I don't think cooking a healthy meal is a priority right now."

"Says the girl who wanted to remain in a house doomed to be a crime scene." He jokes, to himself mostly, and she catches the quick roll of his eyes.

Sansa ignores his expression, "Woman." He lifts a brow at that, turns to face her completely, watches as she slides the lemon between her teeth once again and bites into the acidic fruit.

Her throat tightens at the taste and shakes her head rapidly, trying to rid herself of the bitter flavour, "Fuck."

"Do you plan on getting hammered? Because I don't plan on packing up your shite all by myself."

"Nope. Not hammered, just a little bit numb." She chews on a another piece of carrot after tossing the remnants of the lemon chunk into the steel sink. "Care to join me?" She asks, shoving the orange stick past her lips and grabbing the bottle of vodka she'd thankfully splurged on.

"No. I'm driving." Jon reminds her, clasps his hands over the counter and she watches as the watch around his wrist scratches the worktop, drawing a thin, faint white line into the surface.

"Did you move your jacket?"

"What?" He stands up straight, stops his hand from reaching out towards hers to pry the bottle from between her fingers. "Why, did you want it?"

"No." She pulls a face, finally unscrews the lid of the bottle and pours drink into all three glasses, stopping just short of the rim. "It's gone."

He stills then, hands pausing for just a second before he reaches over and rips the glass from her hand. He chugs the drink, feeling the burn run down his throat, grating against his senses. With a gulp, his eyes close and she watches as his kind brows knit, "Drink. Then we can pack your shit up."

Sansa doesn't nod, doesn't flinch when his hand wraps around hers for only the briefest of moments, clenching into a tight fist before unwrapping.

She grabs the first glass, pulls it up to her dry lips and swishes the liquid around her mouth for five, ten seconds, then swallows it with a sharp gasp. Pure vodka. Delightful.

As she slides the glass back down on the counter, letting it drop down into the sink carelessly, Jon observes her, hands in his jeans' pockets. "Your dad packed up the cellar, didn't he?"

"Yeah. They always take their shit with them when they leave." She shrugs, runs a finger around the rim of the remaining full glass. "It's just my stuff, mostly. I've only been here for a couple days so it shouldn't take long to pack."

"Okay." He nods, stares out into the hallway. "I can do in here, if you want. You can do your room, right?"

"Could you-" The young woman stops herself to think, swirl the words around her mouth with her tongue, trying them on for size. His jacket is gone. She believes him when he says he hasn't moved or misplaced it. There's a third party involved. "Come with me?"

She sways from one foot onto the other, keeping her eyes focused on his, waiting for his reply. Jon nods, their chosen recurring method of nonverbal communication. If I nod, I'm here, I'm with you. A strand of hair falls from his bun and she holds herself back from pointing it out, watching as it falls in his face.

She leads him up the stairs, focusing her ears on the sound of their boots forcing creaks from beneath the old floorboards, forcing her eyes on her knees, watching as her nightie moves up and down her thighs.

Her skin erupts in goosebumps when they reach the top of the staircase and she stops walking and he places a hand on the low of her back to usher her forward.

"Sorry." Jon apologises, removes his hand when she frightens.

"It's fine. Hardly the most unpleasant touch I've experienced in the last day or so."

Nobody has touched her, no, but her skin has been itching for well over a day now. She's felt spiders creeping up her spine for hours, felt cobwebs wrapping around her limbs even longer still.

He doesn't add anything to her comment, only waits for her to move and path the way to her parents' bedroom.

When the door is pushed open, she heads directly over to the dresser, pulling open all the drawers and beginning to pile out her smalls. Jon walks past her, over to the wardrobe to take out her clothes.

She tells him quickly to also grab her mother's fancy dresses, and he makes easy work of grabbing all the hangers between both hands and lying the clothes across her sheets. He slips each and every hanger from the garment and begins to fold them up, somewhat carelessly.

She would care if she was in her right mind. Her underwear is dumped on the end of the bed in a pile and she shoots Jon a glance, plucking one of her mother's dresses from his hands. "I forgot the bags downstairs."

"Alright." He sighs, thankful to escape the sight of his best friend's sister and her lacy underwear. He's not a pervert, nor a creep. But he's a man, and he has found her beautiful since he was nineteen. He knows women, has his fair share of romps and fucks and all that, but she's different and untouchable. He wouldn't even dare think about it.

Sansa pulls her hair into a loose ponytail and tugs at the shoulders of her cardigan as she walks off towards the bathroom down the corridor, Jon notes as he leaves the room, her feet trailing softly behind him. Probably to puke her guts up. He can't blame her.

He's seen her empty luggage in the hallway, shoved in a corner, the tops of the bags caved in from uselessness. As he heads back down the stairwell, Jon checks his watch, not paying any attention to where he steps.

Half two in the afternoon. He groans at that, but his throaty hum turns to a quiet squeak when his right boot slips on something wet, the damp sole losing control of all grip.

He's been military trained, so his reflexes are in check. His hands grip the banister quickly, managing a steady hold on the wood as he looks down at the stairs.

There's water beneath his feet, dripping from step to step, but it originates from the middle of the stairwell, and continues on to the ground floor. He walks in the water, ignoring its oddity, keeping his tired gaze held on the mass of water pooling at the base of the staircase. What the fuck?

When he reaches the ground, Jon crouches down, taps two fingers against the water's surface. It's freezing, and he flicks the water away with a shake of his hand, watching as it splashes in the puddle.

It's been heavily raining outside for a good twenty minutes or so now, so he shoots a look up at the high ceiling, the inner side of the building's roof. The surface of each floor spans the perimeter of the house, but the middle of the mansion is a giant hole, from the ground floor's entrance to the roof.

He can't make out any cracks in the roofing, any explanation as to why water is pouring down the stairs. The ceiling is dry, no damp patches, only rain-wet windows paneling the roof's area.

His brown eyes close for the briefest of seconds, taking a moment to reflect back on the strange happenings around them. Intruders couldn't explain this.

His eyes shoot back open when he hears a creak, a grind, something akin to an overused, shaky old floorboard being stepped on. It comes from around the corner, near the front door, about ten or so feet away from where he stands.

Before he can move, step around the corner and inspect the provenance of such a sound, the faint, almost silent, tune of something, someone humming from behind closed lips catches his attention.

He feels unable to even shift a hand, move his legs back up the stairs as the noise persists, moving further away but growing louder in volume.

It's an odd feeling, he finds; to feel like someone is close to where you stand but they wish to remain a secret. Or maybe they don't. And maybe they're waiting for him to round the corner and face them directly. The floor creaks against, this time closer. Perhaps delaying their fleet from the house had been a sore decision.

Jon designates himself a survivor. He's been through war, come out worse for wear but a changed man for it. He didn't escape death for nothing. He didn't come home just to be slain whilst trying to be a good person.

He is good, kind, and he doesn't deserve to be beaten by some invading whistler with a cutlery fetish. He's better than that. And he's going to get out of this place to make it known.

Without a second thought, he begins his ascent back up the stairs. The leather of his boots grinds against his jeans, his walk foolishly slow. But as he nears the top, over halfway up the staircase, past the puddle of confusion, his speed increases and he finds himself practically running to reach the floor on the landing. His heart beats rapidly, his pulse hammering against his skin far quicker than he knows it should.

With one look back, he is thankful nothing is following him, but the sound is still there, now echoing across almost the entire ground floor's length.

With a peak inside the Starks' empty bedroom in a bid to locate Sansa, he remembers how she had been on her way to the bathroom as he made his way downstairs. Shooting away from the doorway, he goes for the next door down, finding it locked shut.

There is a stream of water running on the other side of the door, and he stops himself from shouting her name. If his presence has eluded the intruder up until how, he doesn't want to give himself away. But then, he remembers his jacket and how it has supposedly gone missing. They already know he's here. His wallet, his keys. Shit.

He tries the doorknob again, his knuckles turning white in fury as it refuses to budge. He blows the strand of fallen hair from his face, pushes it behind his ear and nudges his shoulder against the door repeatedly, an ache burning his collarbone as he probably pulls a muscles in his attempt at a break-in.

The mansion is old, its structures practically ancient by the country's standards. The doors are old wood, the floorboards and small room walls alike. They should be weak, giving in.

Eventually, on his eight blow against the door, when his upper arm is tired and his belted hip is bruising from the force, the door shifts and he almost stumbles inside.

Jon quickly gets to his feet, however, and manages to stand up just well enough to shut it, pulling the rusty metal chain to lock the latch.

Turning around, he leans his back against the door and takes a deep breath, eyes closing and head facing the ground. He presses two fingers against his opposing wrist, sensing his pulse. Slowing.

He pushes himself away from the door, eyes finally shifting up to the figure behind the shower door. Any other day, he would say he happened upon her by accident. But this day isn't that day, and he fell into the room on purpose. "Sansa."

He watches as the hand she had running down her arm stills, the soap slipping from her grasp. He squints in agony as he wraps his fist around the side of the door, pulling on the handle so it moves slightly.

He doesn't look at her, only lets enough room pass between the panel and her body, so that his voice carries over to her beneath the rapid water flow.

"Don't turn the water off." He doesn't say it too loud, but she hears him.

He sees her head tilt from behind the door, foggy from the hot steam and the panel's cloudy design

She doesn't turn the water off, only stands still, arms wrapping around her waist. Her long hair covers her breasts and she squeezes her legs shut tight, eyes cast down at the drain, watching the soapy water swirl at her feet.

Any other day, she'd probably shout at him for coming across her like this, when she's naked and washing and vulnerable. But he is no brute, and the vodka she forced down earlier is fucking with her head.

Well, it's either that, or she's realising the thing she planned to deny until her death is inevitable. Maybe her death is upon her. Perhaps even his.

She knows why he's in here. It isn't because he couldn't help himself, because he's always been curious about his best buddy's little sister's body. It isn't because he's a pig, a pervert, because a depraved madman. Death is at their door, she thinks.

He's heard it, felt it, maybe even seen it. Either the intruders couldn't wait until the sun set to make their way back into her temporary home, or they never left. She can't decide which is more frightening. Probably the latter.

Her palms move from her sides, and she pushes her right hand up against the glass to catch his diverted attention. "Jon."

Sansa knows it's better to keep the shower running, to fool whoever is in the house into thinking she is either still busy or unaware of their imminent attack.

His head lifts up when she speaks his name, brooding face even more solemn than his usual. His back is leant against the wall adjacent to the shower, and his eyes speak volumes. He is thinking, probably coming up with ten different solutions to their dilemma. But none of them seem to take flight, she can tell, because he hasn't moved in minutes. He looks guilty for even being in such close proximity to her.

Sansa takes a tentative step forward, bypassing the fading bar of soap in the water. She taps her elbow against the door, moving it forward with the smallest of squeaks.

When he realises her intent, he reaches forward to grab a fresh towel from the shelf, passing it over to her from his place beside the cubicle. She wraps the cotton around her body, firmly clutching the lengths between her hands.

Her fresh clothes had been laid out in the other room, down the hallway, down where neither one of them really wanted to go. She'd have to settle for her nightie again. So when she sheepishly steps out of the running shower and reaches up for the garment she'd hung on the back of the door, Jon turns around, allowing her some privacy despite their situation.

"My modesty isn't really top priority right now, Jon."

"No, but-" He pauses, scratches at the scruff on his face and shoots her a look over his shoulder.

The towel is on the floor, her skin half-dry and naked as she slips the flimsy gown over her head with great difficulty. Her long wet hair is in the way, sticking to her neck and chest and back and clinging to the twisted straps of her nightgown.

Usually when she showers to get comfy and not start her day, she sits for hours in her bathrobe and lets her hair dry out naturally. She can't afford such a privilege now, though.

"Downstairs."

She understands him directly, with a nod of her head, flinging her hair behind her shoulders, towel-drying it roughly.

She reaches up past him again, keeping her eyes fixed on his face as she lifts her underwear from the hook on the door. "Kitchen?"

"Hall."

Her turns back around when she taps him on the shoulder, one arm through a sleeve of her cardigan. "How long should I leave it running?"

With a glance down at his watch, Jon pulls a face, licks his lips. "Just leave it." Verging on three o'clock but the weather and rain will being an early darkness to the world outside.

He leans back against the steamy wall, curled hair soaking into the moisture, his hands shoved deep in his jeans' pockets.

Sansa sits herself down on the lid of the toilet, knees apart and her back curved as she reaches between them for her boots. She quickly pulls on her socks, up to the tops of her calfs, and proceeds to tug on the laces of her boots until they expand, and she shoved her feet inside, one by one.

Her laces do-up rather quickly, and she stays sat with her knees clanging together, the balls of her feet pushing into the carpeted mat around the toilet. "We can't stay in here forever."

"Not forever. Just until it's safe."

"And when will that be, Jon?" She lifts a brow, focuses on the strands of dark hair curling around his jaw rather than his eyes. "Did you even see anyone? Or was it just noises?"

"There was someone there, okay?" He regrets insinuating that she had been crazy, regrets saying that she could be rather dramatic when she wanted to be. "I'm gonna go see." He pushes himself up from the wall, pushes some hair behind his ear and shoots her a look. "Stay here."

"I'm not staying here without you."

"Sansa-"

"No," She stands, in her boots, her ground, "I'm coming with you. We either go together or not at all." Her ice blue eyes turn dark, her lips damp from the heat of the room. "Besides, I have a plan."

He seems skeptical but he encourages her to continue nonetheless, face blank except for his flickering lids.

"Robb's room. You remember?"

Jon remembers the room, having visited the mansion numerous times in his adolescence and early adulthood.

Robb's room had a balcony the boys once used for sneaking quick smokes in before dinner. It lead down to the edge of the garden, the spiraled metal staircase serving out onto an old dirt path. "We still can't go without my keys."

"Then we'll make our way around from there. And find your jacket, your keys." She nods again, determined, concrete face hidden behind steam emitting from the hot water.

The sleeves of her cardigan roll up to her elbows and Sansa drags her wet hair into a loose ponytail at her shoulder.

Before he can voice his reply, they're caught off-guard by the water from the shower suddenly coming to a halt, the remaining drops running down the grid. It's the only noise filling the room, the house even; the sound of a turned off tap and leftover water.

With wide eyes, Sansa takes a step closer to Jon, brushing up against his side and moving a hand out to the sink. She turns the cold tap, throat dry as not even a drop pours out the end.

The water has been turned off.

Her hand flies away from the tap as though she feels a shock, a stab of pain, when the lights above them begin to flicker, the bulbs failing, and she turns to Jon with dead fear in her eyes.

He doesn't reply, only grabs her free hand in his right and pulls the lock on the door open with this left. It creaks into the room, and Sansa narrowly avoids ripping the edge of her cardigan on the doorknob with the speed of their fleet.

It's then that she hears distant footsteps creeping up the stairwell, squeaking shoes on wet floor.

She chases after him as he runs down the long hallway, around the sharp corners. His tight fist wrapped around her aching fingers keeps ahold of her. She forces herself to keep up with him when he reaches the stairs, using his strength as leverage to pull herself forward and almost crash into him. The stairs are on the other side of the floor, opposing her parents' bedroom. She's never before found the house's architecture so damning.

She steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder for only the briefest of seconds. He's moving his grip from her hand up to her upper arm, fingers curling around the outside of her elbow as he forces her in front of him.

The toes of her boots scrape against the rug at the top of the stairs when they land on the third floor, her body almost falling face first to the ground in the rapidity of her steps. Pretending she can no longer hear the slow far-off footsteps approaching from a floor below, she pulls herself together, swallowing sharply and clawing at the corner of Jon's shirt.

He leans against her, stiff back pressed to her shaking side, hand finding her own. "Go to Robb's room."

Instead of following his command and running along until she reaches the room, she remains at his side, prying his fingers apart and forcing her own between them, all the while keeping her eyes on the floor. She can feel it shaking beneath her feet, or at least she imagines that it could be.

Everything feels odd, too strange for her to function properly. But she has to.

When she doesn't comply, and Jon realises she will only continue to refuse to leave him behind, he gives up on arguing and steps ahead of her. He doesn't drop her hand, only tugs her along behind him with fast steps.

The door to Robb's old room is locked, but before she can suggest breaking it down, Jon is crouching down, his arm raised to keep contact with her, and pulling at the floorboard lay just outside the door. The edge budges, flies up and he reaches beneath it to pull out a key.

Sansa figures her brother had hid it there as a spare for those times their father had confiscated his key when he'd invited a girl over to stay with them. It makes sense that Jon would have known about it. He probably used it, too.

He stomps the floorboard back into place as she toys with the lock, turning it open and letting them into the room. Once they're inside, she locks it again, hands the rusting key back over for him to slip inside his pocket.

The doors bolts over and she runs both hands over her face before spinning around, heavy chested and panting. Her throat runs dry, her lips drawn tight.

"What are you doing?"

"Just..." He's knelt down beside the bed, seemingly rummaging around underneath it. He grunts, his back arching as he pulls a box out. The lid comes open easily, discarded on the floor beside them. Sansa brushes her hair behind her ear as she stares after him, watching as he pulls picture after picture, letter after letter from the box.

She knows it to be Robb's special box, full of keepsakes and memories. Most of the stuff is from his time back in the army with Jon and Loras and Theon. She's never thought much about rooting through it.

But he pulls a gun from the box, checks it's loaded, and stuffs it beneath the waist of his jeans before she can even comprehend what is happening. Any other day, she'd find him appealing. All scruffy and sweaty and armed. But it's half attractive, half concerning.

He's pulling on her hand again, calloused fingers wrapping tight within her own softer ones. They stop before the balcony door, and she helps by turning the latch hurriedly, letting the door swing out and open onto the fresh balcony.

The air is cold outside, all winter and rain and no sunlight is sight. Her thighs cover is goosebumps, her nipples harden beneath her thin gown and her teeth chatter as he closes the door and pays her little attention, focused on falsifying their escape.

She tugs on her sleeves, covers her breasts and quickly jogs down the treble dozen steps leading out onto the snow-covered dirt below, the best she can in their soaked state. Slipping and making a display, breaking a leg would be foolish.

Sansa waits for him to follow her before continuing, making her way down the dirt path and keeping her shoulders raised, arms tight over her chest. She ignores the rain pouring down her face, ignores the way he keeps his eyes on her, the way the water clings to his eyelashes.

When she peers away from the man beside her, something catches her attention across the way, glimmering in the moody afternoon storm light. She makes a quick run for it, despite his quietly echoed protests in the rain. Sansa! Stop! No.

It couldn't be more than a few dozen feet away from them. She finally reaches the picnic table she had set her sights on, fingers curling around the handle of a large knife. Her breath catches, thankful she had used the weapon the day before to open some old bags of dirt.

She keeps a firm grasp around the handle, running back over the grass, coated in a thin-layer of snow, until she reaches Jon, stood at the halfway mark, shirt soaked and clinging to his skin.

She thinks them a sore sight. He, with the disheveled hair and brooding face of their generation. She, with her lack of decency and her alcohol-stained lips.

"We stay together." He reminds her, coolly, voice low despite the need to almost shout in the heavy downpour.

She hears him, though, and nods, acknowledging their unspoken pact. You can't leave me, so I won't leave you either. I came so I'm staying. You answered my call so you need to follow through. You wanted to save me? Help me survive.

She feels her body sway. From fatigue, from nausea, she doesn't know. But she moves, keeps nodding, stepping forward until she reaches him. Her empty hand clutches at the collar of his shirt, wet fingers stroking his soaked skin.

She wants to drop the knife, wants to let herself collapse into the soaking wet ground and lie there for days, years. But instead she can only manage to bring her clenched fist up to his chest and let the blade swing between them.

"If I'm going to die, let it happen while there is still some of me left."

Without allowing him time to contemplate her words, her hand at his neck pushes, grabs, curls around his pulse and tugs at the loose strands of his drenched hair, pulling his face down to hers and his lips against her own.

He doesn't deny her, doesn't pull away or shove her back. He only returns her kiss, mouth clamping around her own, tongue sweeping past her prudent lips until she responds, gives in to what has been brewing for hours, years.

She can feel the wedge of the gun between them, his hands moving from her hips to her face, tracing up her side, clinging to the material of her nightgown.

With a shove of her hand against his chest, Sansa forces herself away, feels her heart beat faster than she deems comfortable. She wants to do it again, to feel him, to touch him, feel him touch her. But now is not the time, and if somehow they're still alive in the end, she swears to herself that she'll fuck him, for both of their benefits.

Sensing her angst, Jon nods once, twice, then backs his body away but keeps a hand on her waist. He keeps it pressed against her frame, clenching around her nightie, trying his damnedest to ignore her clear nudity beneath it.

He pulls on the side of her cardigan with his other hand, holding it tight around her. His brown eyes don't leave hers, and he catches the way the smallest of smiles graces the corner of her mouth. Now is not the time.

Sansa stares down at her legs, thighs pale from the cold, knees scratched from falling. She bites at the insides of her cheeks, swirls her tongue around her mouth. He tastes like candy peppermint and vodka.

Before she can stop herself, she feels herself leaning forward, head falling to the crook of his neck, nose pressing into his sticky flesh, breathing him in. He smells of rain, humidity almost, and cigarettes. She finds it deeply intoxicating.

"We need to go."

No sooner have the words left his mouth that her head lifts up, eyes innocent and skin flushed. Her cheeks glisten like rubies from the cold, her lips cracking as they part. She's heard something, he knows.

His hand on her face curves around her jaw, this thumb tracing her lower lip. Ice cold skin on frosted flesh. Her red hair clings to her neck and he's half tempted to brush it aside just to touch her, half tempted to scrape it aside with his teeth just to taste her.

His thoughts are perturbed by a flickering sound behind them, from where the house resides and their troubles lie. He backs away from her then, dropping all contact aside from his hand at his side.

She turns, stands beside him, lowers her knife to her other side. Her knuckles graze against his own like feathers in a soft breeze and he traps her hand in his own, turning their growing familiarity to complete ease.

The house is quiet, no banging, no screaming. Nothing is strange, they notice, until the outside lights flicker before shutting off completely.

All power seems to go out, the hanging string of fairy lights above the porch now black and only swinging in the wind, the inside lamps reflected through the window now unlit. All noise fades, any activity inside the house now dead. Everything turns black, and their only light comes from a darkening winter sky.

Her fingers tighten in his, her skin ice cold but radiating warmth.

"Merry Christmas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote like three different drafts of this chapter because I just couldn't get it to a place where I was satisfied with it. One even involved a rather impromptu sex scene and I'm not sure how that would have worked here... yet. Hopefully choosing this version paid off and you're all still interested so see what's happening... Anyway, yep, thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Tumblr gifset I made.


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